


Revelations

by Smutnug



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mild Smut, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-06 16:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11040225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutnug/pseuds/Smutnug
Summary: "Don't think I've saved you. Your life belongs to me."





	1. The Inquisitor's Lover

_I am alone, so don't speak_

_I find war and I find peace_

_Find no heat and no love in me_

_\- Flesh and Bone, Keaton Henson_

 

* * *

“His crimes...well, you are aware of his crimes.”

He focused on his shackled wrists. The dirt under his nails, the white line of an old scar on the sun-browned back of his hand. His head seemed suddenly too heavy to lift.

“It was no small expense to bring him here, but the decision of what to do with him is now yours.”

Hands gripped his arms and held him upright, firm but not cruel. He'd been prepared for cruelty. The noose around his neck, a quick snap or a slow strangle. The headman’s axe was a possibility, but there was a certain pageantry to a hanging that the Orlesians enjoyed. Leading up to that a few violent indignities, blunt and sharp.

Josephine moved aside with a rustle of silk.

“Don't think I've saved you. Your life belongs to me.” Ice in the Inquisitor's voice. He'd seen it in her before, once or twice, hadn't ever thought to be on the receiving end.

“Whatever you paid, it wasn't worth it." He finally raised haggard eyes to the throne. "What did you have to do to release me?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Josephine called in a few favours. There are enough people out there who owe the Inquisition.” Her lips were thinned. Her beautiful soft lips. He remembered them parting, her soft gasps, the feel of them on his skin.

Focus. “And what happens to the reputation the ambassador has so carefully cultivated?” Josephine kept her eyes on her board.

 _How does she stop that candle from dripping wax all over her papers?_ he had wondered.

 _It must be magic._ She had laughed, her breath tickling his ear.

He forced himself to look at her. Upright, for once, in her throne. The ambassador was forever fussing about her unladylike posture. Tunic and breeches hugging her form, taunting him with his knowledge of the body beneath. She must know the damage she was doing their cause, for the sake of a single worthless man. “The world will learn how you've used your influence. They'll knows the Inquisition is corrupt.”

Her green eyes narrowed. “Your opinions will no longer be considered. You've lost that privilege.” No trace for the moment of the gentle soul he knew, not for him. “I decide what becomes of you now.”

“And what becomes of me?”

How he’d dreamed of her, on his bed of cold stone. Her auburn hair pinned up in elaborate braids, like silk beneath his fingers. Her easy smile, head thrown back a little when she laughed, that pale neck he could kiss for days. Now she could be a statue, cold marble and drakestone and stormheart. The only warmth was the pink flush of anger in her cheeks.

“You are in the Inquisition’s debt and you will be what the Inquisition requires.” Her voice was calm, but her hands gripped the arms of the throne hard enough to turn her knuckles white. “We benefit from the appearance of having a Warden on our side and so you will remain Blackwall. You will say nothing of Rainier, and neither will we.”

He could not have heard right. She wouldn’t do this to the Inquisition, to _him_. “So I’m to live the lie...until you release me from it.”

“It's not my lie, it's yours.” That much at least he could not argue, but he hated the cruel amusement in her voice. She looked down on him, triumphant - Lady Isobel Trevelyan, Inquisitor, his captor - and his shoulders drooped. He had never felt older or more defeated.

“Of course. I will...serve you with a humble heart til death, or dismissal.”

He stood dumbly as they released his shackles. Hours later he would still feel the bite of steel on his wrists.

 

Blackwall was avoiding her. Skulking in the stables. If he thought she would let him off so easily, he was sorely mistaken.

She begged a carrot from the kitchens for her horse - in truth, requested one, and the kitchen staff tripped over themselves to oblige her - and from there it was a short walk to the stables. She stuck to the grassy patches, making a game of walking silently in her soft leather boots. The horse whickered in recognition but he didn’t look up, his head bent to the task of oiling his neglected armour. As she watched him from the shadows he paused and shook his head, softly muttered, “Bitch.”

She cleared her throat.

His head snapped up and she saw emotions play over his face - surprise, regret, apology. Resentment won out in the end. He laid his armour aside and rose to his feet, arms crossed over his chest. “ _Warden Blackwall_ at your service.”

Defiance, then? She hadn't been sure he had it in him after the way he’d reacted to her judgement. Like a puppet with its strings loosened. It had almost been enough to make her feel sorry for him.

Almost.

“Why so bitter?” She mirrored his crossed arms, leaning against the stall. “You made your bed.”

He snorted. “Oh, I'm aware of that. But do feel free to rub it in my face whenever possible.” There was still strength in that large frame, a pride that remained despite his public disgrace. “I'd hate to deprive you of that particular pleasure.”

She was dimly aware that she was provoking him. A small shift in her posture drew her shoulders back, crossed arms nudging her breasts up. A half-smile when his eyes flickered down and back to her face. “You seem to have a problem with me.”

His eyes narrowed, his heavy brows drawn in a scowl. “You know I serve you and the Inquisition. I'll do whatever you wish.” Rocking back on his heels, a belligerent raise of his chin. “But we aren't friends - we never will be - and I believe your time would be better spent elsewhere.”

The knowledge took her by surprise, that his words could sting. She didn’t need or want his friendship. So she took refuge behind a dismissive huff of breath, her mouth twisted in a mocking smile.

“Quite right. Next time you'll come to me. Sundown tomorrow, my quarters.” His eyes widened in shock and her smile grew, just a little. “If I'm not there, you can wait for me. If you're not there, I'll send somebody to fetch you.”

He was silent for a moment - would he fight her on this? She was beyond ready for a fight, by now.

“As you wish. You are, after all, in charge.”

She nodded. “Good.”

He sat and picked up his armour and rag, dismissing her. Conscious of his eyes at her back, she added a small extra sway to her hips as she walked away.

 

The straw pallet was lumpy and the draughty stables cold. Had he really brought her here? To him it still felt indulgent after the past weeks in a damp prison cell, or sleeping upright in the rickety transport wagon, wrists shackled and face bumping against a sack of grain. Such a bloody hurry to bring him back, only to leave him here in this limbo.

If he closed his eyes could picture her too clearly. In the practice yard at Haven, moving as one with the blunted greatsword, a grace in her movements and a strength that belied her small frame. And the elegant curve of her neck when she paused, cheeks flushed pink in the cold air, errant strands of hair plastered to her face. Laughing green eyes catching his, a smile before she turned away.

The tavern would still be open. He could get plastered, stagger back here and get some bloody sleep, finally. They wouldn’t welcome him though. Never mind the pretense, everyone here knew him for what he was. Sidelong glances, conversations that fell silent as he passed. Spit on the ground. Shame, he hadn’t had a drink since that last night, with her.

Fabric falling away under his rough hands, the pale expanse of her skin. Stormheart green eyes, trusting.

Her scent still lingered here, if only in his imagination. He grunted and turned the pillow over.

 

Her eyes didn't stray from her work as his heavy tread fell on the stairs, and he stood awkwardly for a moment. He'd never seen her red hair unbound before, and it gleamed in the torchlight as if an extension of those leaping flames. She sat behind her desk frowning gently at a parchment, shrewd green eyes flickering across the tiny print. To his embarrassment she was clad only in a large nightshirt. The oversized neckline bared half of one pale shoulder. So soft, her shoulders, under his rough hands. He tried to look anywhere else.

“Trade deals. Dry reading, I'm afraid.” She waved an elegant wrist. “Take a seat.”

At his hesitation she looked up, eyebrows raised in query.

“I'm not sure it's proper, my lady. For me to be here, alone.”

“Oh?” The corner of her mouth twitched upward. “I seem to remember you being here alone before, _Thom_.”

Thom. How long since anyone had called him that? “I thought I was to remain Blackwall.”

“Out there you're Blackwall. In here you can be Thom. Thom the murderer. Thom the traitor.” Her stormheart gaze pierced his soul. “Thom the liar.”

He bit back his retort. There was, after all, nothing she said that he could deny.

“Sit.”

He sat, hands clasping his knees awkwardly as she finished skimming the document, made notes in a small, neat hand before consigning it to a pile and picking up another. Watching her, the words he'd been holding in tripped off his tongue.

“How do you expect to keep this secret? You saw the crowd in Val Royeaux. People know who I am.”

Her shrug slipped the fabric down further on her shoulder, her bare skin kissed by the firelight. “People know a lot of things about the Inquisition. Talk to five people and three of them will tell you Josephine’s an Antivan crow and Varric's next in line for the crown of Orzammar. That's just here in Skyhold. You don't even want to know what they say about Dorian, or Bull. Though to be fair, most of the stories about Bull are true.” She paused, brushed the feathered pen against her lips before neatly crossing out a string of words. "Me? I'm a follower of the Qun. An Orlesian bard. An elf, they'll swear blind they saw my pointed ears. I used to work at the Blooming Rose in Kirkwall and my name was Serendipity." 

He had to admit he had heard wilder tales from the prison guards in Val Royeaux.

"And you...Sorry, Blackwall. The tales they tell about Blackwall! He's the bastard son of Loghain Mac Tir. No, he is Loghain Mac Tir, secretly spared and conscripted into the Wardens. There's a faction that believes you're the real King Alistair, sworn to fight darkspawn while an imposter sits the throne. Walk into any tavern in Denerim and you'll find a dozen men who will tell you they saw Blackwall fight alongside the Hero of Ferelden. At least three will swear that you slew the Archdemon yourself and you flew into battle on a griffon. Thom Rainier is a dull story in comparison."

There was nothing to say. He grunted, outplayed.

Her fingers tugged the nightshirt over her shoulder. “Is there anything you actually know about the Wardens, or did you make it all up?” Released, it immediately fell back. 

Unwise pride took hold of him. “I knew enough to fool you, didn't I?”

A misstep. She looked up, then returned to her work with a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Yes, you fooled me alright.”

 _Only cowards strike the defenseless._ She had thrown those words at him in Val Royeaux, and although he had branded himself a coward for years it still stung to hear it from another.

The Inquisitor was far from defenseless here, armed with stinging barbs and clad in the invisible armour of rank, still shakily holding the moral high ground. And yet...her shoulders were a fraction too stiff, her voice too measured. Her injuries were still fresh.

Was this how things were to be between them, now? Circling each other, wounded, searching for a weakness in the other's armour. And he too bloody stubborn to concede defeat.

“Do you know what people called you in Val Royeaux? The Inquisitor’s lover. Sounds like something Varric would come up with. _The Inquisitor’s Lover_.” Her tone mocked them both.

“As far as anyone's concerned, that's what you'll remain. You'll come here every evening and stay long enough to keep up appearances.”

“What? I will not!” His fists clenched in his lap.

“I have my pride.” Still looking down she circled a figure on her notes, underlined a word.

“This is your idea of pride?”

“I wouldn't expect you to understand. In fact, I don't require you to understand.” The stroke of her pen was a touch too violent, a black scar marring the tidy column. “Just obey.”

He crossed his arms, belligerent. "I won't do it.”

“If the idea is so distasteful to you, I can find you other duties." She drummed her fingers lightly, considering. "Perhaps you could help track down the last of Rainier’s troops. It should be short work, with the Inquisition’s spies at our disposal.”

His fist on the desk set the inkwell rattling. “You wouldn't!”

She didn't flinch but leaned back in her chair, finally meeting his eyes. “I wouldn't,” she conceded. “But the fact that it even occurred to me should give you pause.”

They met each others’ gaze coolly, lovelessly.

“It seems I didn't know you as well as I thought.”

“About as well as I knew you, perhaps.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand, returning to her documents. “I have a pile of these to get through. Make yourself at home. There's a copy of Genitivi’s _History of Soldiers Peak_ around here somewhere. You might find it educational.”

She didn't acknowledge him again until her candle guttered and she put her work aside with a sigh.

“You can go now. But I expect to see you here tomorrow.” He stood silently. “After dinner will do, I'll have them send up something to drink.”

He bowed stiffly. “Goodnight, my lady.”

“Good night. Thom.”

_There was truth to what we had, and there is good in you. I have to believe that._

The words echoed in his head as he trudged back to the cold stables. It seemed they had both lost faith.


	2. Only Gold

_ And I am low and unwell _

_ This is love, this is hell _

_ This sweet plague that follows me _

_ \- Flesh and Bone, Keaton Henson _

* * *

 

The dressing gown was Royale Sea silk. It had come as a gift to the Inquisitor from a minor Comte after the ball, accompanied by a flowery proposal.

_Will you accept, my lady?_

She had pressed her lips together, thinking. _I don't know...it is very pretty._

He had wrapped his arms around her waist and she’d giggled, halfheartedly struggling free but managing only to turn and face him. The moment had stretched out until he remembered some duty in the armoury, an excuse to release her before he compromised her any further. Uncomfortable tightness in his breeches, still feeling her trapped in his arms.

Whether she wore it tonight to stir painful memory or as a nod to modesty, he couldn't say.

His body had taken a beating in the practice yard today. It seemed his incarceration had left him out of condition and the soldiers were happy to take advantage. His pride had taken a second beating on his walk to the Inquisitor’s quarters, past the clusters of whispering nobles in the great hall.

Now he accepted the wine from her outstretched hand, ignoring the warm jolt that ran through him when their fingers brushed. “Thank you, my lady.”

The desk was clear of work tonight, and she watched him with bright eyes. Her elbows rested on the wood, her chin on her hands. The childlike gesture made her seem innocent and oddly vulnerable. He reminded himself that she was capable of cruelty, deceit, spite. “Let’s talk about you. The truth, this time.”

Right. He drained his goblet. “I suppose I owe you that.”

“You do.” She refilled his drink. “Did you have a family? A wife? Children?”

“No. I’ve never been suited to that kind of life. Maybe I don’t deserve it.”

She didn’t contradict him.

“And I’d never found someone I wanted to stay with.” At that her lip curled and she took a gulp of her own wine. Her unspoken thought, _Clearly_ , hung in the air between them.

“So you’re actually Orlesian?”

“Didn’t I say that I was from Markham, in the Free Marches? I didn’t lie about that. I spent my childhood there. And then Orlais called to me.” Crowds, glamour. The bright streets and dark intrigues. “Markham seemed lifeless, colourless in comparison.”

Was she offended by that, he wondered? She was a Marcher herself and had little time for the pomp and ceremony of Val Royeaux, even proficient as she was in the Game. Her face gave nothing away. “Tell me about your time as a soldier.”

“I served in the Imperial Army. I distinguished myself there. Earned respect, the loyalty of my men.”

A memory intruded from another life. Not Orlais but more recent. Inquisition recruits lined up with their practice swords - farmers, labourers, servants. Elves who trembled when he looked at them sideways.

 _You don’t have to shout at them, Blackwall._ She sat on her hands in the sunshine by the stables.

 _Of course I do._ It’s how things were done. You didn't build an army with a soft touch.

 _You’re making them nervous. How are they supposed to hold a sword with a great hairy man yelling at them?_ Her hand on his cheek, a smile playing in the corners of her mouth.

_You do them a disservice, my lady. Learn this now, and they’ll be prepared to face the enemy._

_We’ll see_. She’d trained alongside him all week, keen eyes finding the recruits that struggled and breaking their technique down into smaller steps, demonstrating and praising when they got it right. They shone with confidence, improving in leaps and bounds.

_It’s because they want to please you. I can’t command that sort of respect._

She had looked at him with surprise. _Of course you can. They respect you for your skill. Not your title, or because you shout the loudest. They want to learn from you, Blackwall. Build up their confidence and their skill, and they'll face anything._

More recruits made it through training after that. For a ragtag bunch who’d never lifted a sword a year ago, they were the best bloody soldiers he’d ever trained. He’d been proud of her, and she of him.

Now hostile, silent, she waited for him to continue.

“And then I threw it all away. Betrayed my own side for gold. Only gold.”

Would he have been happy with himself, had it not all gone wrong? It was murder, however you sliced it. All for the Game. The power had called to him as much as the gold.

Crashing down. The hammer of axes on the carriage doors. None of them walked away unchanged, but at least they walked away. “You were on the run from the authorities, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I made my living as a hired sword. Spent most of my coin on drink. The occasional whore.” Did he say that to shock her? If so, it didn’t seem to work. Her green eyes still watched him, a cat with a mouse. “I never stayed in one place for long. Had to keep moving. I got to see much of Orlais that way.” A lot of villages, mountains, coast. A lot of taverns, waking with a headache and a sour taste in his mouth. A lot of unwise risks, for a wanted man. “I saw what men like me had done to this great empire. It was a shock, seeing it up close, hearing the stories...it’s one thing to hear the news from afar, another to actually be there.”

Isobel refilled her own goblet. “But you were there, when Callier...?”

 _Close enough to hear the children singing. Close enough to see the splinters flying from the carriage door. Close enough to stop it, once I knew. But frozen, locked on my course_. He nodded.

She rifled in the desk now. A chess board was produced, and a small bag full of stone pieces.

“You know Cullen likes to play chess. Or Dorian.”

Her eyes were focused on setting up the pieces but her voice held a small bite. “I thought you liked games.”

Games all around him. This one, he couldn’t win. So he drained his wine, made his opening move. His side was black.

“You’re staying here tonight.” Her knight took his mage.

“Am I now?”

“You are. You can leave before the morning, if you want. Take the couch, or the bed’s big enough you won’t have to touch me. The floor’s probably nicer than what you’re used to.”

He threatened her queen. “In that case, I hope you have more wine.”

She smiled. “I do. Are you sure you want to make that move?”

“I’m sure.”

“It’s your funeral.” His queen fell. “So. Thom Rainier. No wife, occasional whores.”

He raised his eyebrows. The word sounded strange from her lips, whores. Not something she was used to saying. “In the whole sorry tale, that’s what caught your attention?”

“Just getting my facts straight.” A final, decisive move. “Checkmate.” Her piercing eyes on his. “Are you up to a rematch?”

He shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere. Apparently.”

“No, you’re not. Try and last a bit longer, this time.”

 

He toyed with the idea of not going up. Would she really send people for him? What form would it take? A messenger? Soldiers? Perhaps easier not to find out, but he felt he was walking on loose sand. Each scrap of information she gathered tucked away for further use, shaped into ammunition for use against him.

It was back to just a linen nightshirt tonight, for better or worse. Still, he remembered the slide of Royale Sea silk between his fingers when she unwrapped the parcel, her laughing face so close to his. Close enough to kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

Instead of the chess board there was a map, covered in scrawls and markers. The Arbor Wilds. She leaned over it as they discussed troop movements, her unbound hair sometimes brushing his hand. His eyes stayed fixed on the map, tracing its curves. Not hers. When she leaned forward a gap at her neckline showed the top swell of her breasts. Back, and the thinness of the linen became apparent, her body clearly outlined in the firelight.

Maker’s balls, what he wouldn’t give for a Royale Sea silk gown between them right now. He settled for a gulp of wine.

“Does Cullen know you’re showing me this?”

“Cullen’s not the only military man in the Inquisition. Apparently.”

He risked a glance at her face. “Does this game ever end?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Her finger traced the course of a river.

“How much did you pay, to get me out?”

She shrugged. “It’s only gold, Thom.” Finger circling a mountain. She was perched on the edge of the desk, her knees barely covered, shapely calves swinging. Her eyes glittered green when she looked up at him, biting her lip before continuing, her chin raised in a challenge. “I want you to tell me more about your whores.”

“What?” He pushed his chair back, horrified. “No! Why?”

“I’m curious.” She leaned back on the desk, no doubt aware that the slight chill in the air made her nipples peak beneath the linen shirt. “My mother used to tell me you can tell a lot about a man from the way he treats women.” He looked for mockery, but her expression was thoughtful.

“Women, yes. Not…”

“Oh, they weren’t women?” Now she _was_ mocking him. “I’m sorry, I just assumed…”

“Maker’s balls. Yes, they were women.” He crossed his arms, a futile gesture of defence. “What do you want to know?”

“What were they like?”

“Like?” What kind of a question…”They were - different. I don’t know.”

“Alright. Start with the last one. Do you remember her?”

Vaguely. Short, buxom. Dark haired. The day before he met Blackwall. No, two days before. One he’d spent sleeping it off. “Years ago. At a tavern. She was…” he gestured vaguely, indicating height, shape. “Black hair.”

She tilted her head and he could see her forming the picture in her mind. “What did you do with her?”

“I am _not_ telling you that.” This was not right, but his body had started to betray him.

“Fine. Show me. Pretend I’m her.” Her knees parted, just a fraction.

Was she drunk? He didn’t think so. He raised his hands in protest. “My lady. Inquisitor. I will not pretend you are a whore. We are not having this conversation.”

“No?” Her eyes gleamed now, dangerous. “Shall I tell you a story, instead? The first time I lay with a man.”

Maker, no.

“He was older than me. He told me how much he respected me. Admired me. Pushed me away just enough to make it seem like everything was my idea.”

He hadn’t known. He should have. She was a noble, not a flighty Orlesian noble but the youngest daughter of a Marcher family, devout Andrastians. It was enough that he should have entertained the possibility, but by the time he realised it was too late, he’d been overeager. It didn’t matter, she said, she loved him. Her green eyes trusting, soft skin in his rough hands.

“It was in a stable. On a bed made of hay bales. And when I woke up in the night I was naked, and alone. I don’t have much experience in these things, but it certainly felt like I’d been treated like a whore.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. I had to go. It was for the best.”

“You did. So much so that your bags were already packed.” She was standing now, her lips compressed with barely controlled anger. “So my question is, did you have to lie with me first? Was that for the best?”

It was indefensible, he should have said. Selfish. Yet somehow what he found himself saying was, “You suggested it.”

There was genuine amusement in her laughter then. “Are you a child then, Thom, to be so easily led? Do my suggestions have so much power?”

She crossed to him in two short strides, took his hand and pressed it to her breast. He tried to pull back but weakly, too weakly, recalling the touch of her bare skin beneath his hands, his lips. She was soft and warm in his hand, except for the hard peak against his palm. “Are you powerless now?”

“Bel - “

“Do not call me that.”

“Is this part of your revenge, then?” Maker help him, he was hard as a rock.

She shrugged. Her breath was coming unnaturally slow, a small shudder he could feel with his fingers. She had released her grip on his hand, he could pull away. He should. Instead like a fool he rose and tried to kiss her, his hand still on the curve of her breast. She turned her head. “It’s my understanding that whores don’t kiss.”

“You’re not a whore.”

“If I say you’re Blackwall, you’re Blackwall. And if I say I’m a whore, then I’m a whore. Is that clear enough?” She arched her back ever so slightly, pressing into his hand. “Think of your life as my payment, if it helps you feel better.”

It didn’t. “Some do kiss.” She was so close, her hair fluttered with his breath.

She rested a hand on his chest and he was almost giddy. He hadn’t thought to be ever touched again, after the last time. “What about her? The last one?”

His recollection was foggy and his thoughts clouded with lust. “She didn’t. I don’t think she did.”

“Come on, then.” And he found he was powerless, as she unlaced his breeches and led him over to the bed.

There was less resistance, this time, just her sweet warmth around him, wet and welcoming. He buried his face in her neck, lifted her knees and felt her move to take him deeper. He wondered if he was allowed to kiss her neck. She loved it, before, just his breath against her skin was enough to make her melt. Did he leave a mark on her, that night, a visible reminder of her humiliation? Fingers tugging a scarf in place over her slender neck. He breathed her in.

It was over too soon, or not soon enough, he couldn’t rightly tell. Her head was turned away from him. Breath uneven, hands clutching the covers, drakestone hair in a tangle.

“Should I stay?” He laced himself up feeling coarse, clumsy.

“Stay, go, I don’t care.” Her nightshirt was askew and she righted it before turning onto her side, knees drawn up. “Just come back tomorrow.”

 

In the dark, she wondered at herself. Had this been her plan? She had wanted to punish him. At the same time she wanted to unravel him, to know him completely. To understand how he could do what he had done, this man who had drawn her in with his stability, his integrity.

And when it had taken a turn, when she found herself pressing him against her, letting him inside her...Maker help her, it felt good. The shiver that had run through her at the last. She wanted him every way possible, ways her imagination could barely conjure.

He would come back tomorrow.

 


	3. My Lady, Don't

_My body's weak_

_Feel my heart giving up on me_

_\- Flesh and Bone, Keaton Henson_

* * *

 

The Hinterlands. Bringing hope to the refugees, no task beneath her. Their eyes had shone with adoration.

Therinfal Redoubt. Giving orders to Templars twice her age as if she'd been born to command.

Haven. Walking into the snowy darkness, facing certain defeat with her head held high.

A few short weeks ago. _One moment at a time._ Her lips soft and sweet beneath his, her eyes trusting.

Then last night. _Whores don't kiss._ Her face turned away, knees up around his waist as he spilled inside her, ashamed.

She was right, he could have left without dragging her further into his misery. _I need you to end this, because I can't._ He was a coward. And now once more his unwilling feet drew him closer to her.

He'd never seen her in a dress before. She must have had her share of them, growing up noble, but in her time with the Inquisition it was either armour or the tunic and leggings she got around in at Skyhold. Even at the Winter Palace she was in the same ceremonial garb as the rest of them.

He did love the way those leggings hugged her curves, but the dress...the worst was that it wasn't even fancy. There were times he had imagined an existence where he wasn't Thom Rainier, fugitive, or Blackwall, Commander of the Grey. And she wasn't the Inquisitor, or Lady Isobel Trevelyan. Just people, living simply.

Now here she was, hair up in a simple knot. A plainspun dress, almost peasant garb, laced in the front. A vision from his most foolish daydreams.

“It's just a dress, Thom. I'm sure you've seen one before.”

“I have. Just not…” He cleared his throat. “Not like that.”

Despite herself, she was pleased. “War council all day. It's bloody, sweaty work. I needed a change of clothes.”

No trace of shame on her face from last night. She settled at her desk, gestured at a decanter and glasses. “I have some signatures to put to...things. I'll be with you in a minute.” He watched as she bent her head to her task, eyes shamefully drawn to the low front of her bodice, the dip of her cleavage.

“So, where were we?”

“I'm sorry?” He was startled from his reverie.

“You. I suppose the second last might be a stretch.” She scattered sand over a signature. “How about the first? Do you remember that?”

It wasn't over, then. “First woman, or…?”

Isobel glanced up, amused. “Unless they're the same, the second.”

They weren't. “After the grand tourney. Another tavern. Blonde.”

Pursed lips, blowing away the sand. “And?”

“We were drinking. She sat on my lap. I didn't realise at first she was…”

She laughed. “When did you realise?”

“After.” Riding a wave of adrenaline and ego. What woman wouldn't want him, young and handsome, champion of the grand melee?

“That late?” A smirk, another scratched signature. “What happened in between?”

“She...sat on my lap.”

“You mentioned that.”

“I put my hand in her bodice.” He shifted uncomfortably.

“Go on.”

“She put my hand...underneath her skirts.”

“She did?”

“I helped.”

“I'm sure.” The last letter added to the pile. She looked at him then, head tilted. “Then…?”

“I followed her. To a room - a storeroom, I think. I was drunk.”

“Goes without saying. So where…?”

“Against the wall.”

“Against the wall? Interesting.” She tidied her things away and pushed back from the desk. He wiped sweaty palms on his trousers. She approached with a sway of her hips, wrapped an arm around his neck as she lowered herself onto his lap.

“You don't want to do this.”

“Then why am I doing it?” A wriggle, shifting in his lap and already he was uncomfortably hard. “Remind me what you did next?”

“Her...bodice.” She waited. He raised a trembling hand and slipped it down the front of her dress, cupping her breast, brushed the side of his thumb against her nipple and felt her shiver.

“And then under her skirts.” Her smaller fingers closed over his. He could kiss her bare neck now. Would she lean into him, sighing? Or stand up, push him away? Which was he more afraid of?

Then his hand brushed her stockinged leg, ran up her bare thigh, slid inside...Oh Maker. He was damned.

Her breath hitched, and he chanced a tentative brush of his lips against her neck, felt her fluttering pulse. His hand in her bodice squeezed her breast, and she leaned her head against his, breathing slow and shallow. Her hips rocked back against him and he couldn't wait any longer.

Her back against the wall, her skirts hitched up, before he even thought to fumble at his laces. There was an awkward moment while he freed himself, then sweet release, buried inside her. Her legs were long and athletic, wrapped around his waist as he clawed at her bodice, buried his face between her breasts. If he wasn't sure if she reached her climax last time, tonight she left him no doubt.

"Stay longer," she ordered, when he would have moved to go. So they went to bed, not touching, slept with their backs turned to each other.

 

She saw him slip out before dawn. When he was gone she slid a hand over to the other side of the bed. She could feel the warmth of him still there under the sheets, and a warm ache in her body where he'd been, last night.

Just across the room there was where he'd first kissed her. And then bent to kiss her neck, and the pull of his lips on her skin awoke feelings she’d never known. Suddenly she understood why people risked disgrace and ruin for this thing, this transient connection with another person. She had wanted him all over her, inside her, his mouth on her breasts, his fingers... _Maker, help me, I need..._ She had felt a wicked urge to slide a hand down the front of his trousers, to wrap around the hard length of him and hear him groan.

But he had been so hesitant, so reluctant even to kiss her. It seemed not so long ago that she had flirted with him up on the ramparts, and he had all but pushed her away. _My lady, don't._ How would he react now if she rubbed up against him like a cat in heat?

So she had let him kiss her. So restrained, so chivalrous. If she'd asked him to fuck her against the wall then, would he have done it? If they'd been closer, sooner, might he have told her the truth? Instead it was weeks of stolen kisses by the stables, sharing tents with anyone else when they ventured from Skyhold, all so proper it made her want to scream.

 _Men only want one thing, and when they get it they don't need you any more._ That was her mother's take on it, and Isobel had wondered if that was the case, how had she ended up with so many children? But finally it came to pass, and before the morning he was gone.

It didn't matter. She wasn't that girl any more, afraid to ask for what she wanted for fear of losing what she had. He'd obey, not for fear of the consequences if he didn't but because he wanted it, wanted _her,_ wanted to do whatever she needed of him and pretend it was a punishment.

How many bodies had he used and discarded? And he had dared to treat her as if she was somehow precious. She was a whore like any other, and she'd make him pay.

 


	4. Who You Choose To Follow

_I see war on the screen_

_And it is cruel and unclean_

_But I still worry more about you_

_And I am rude and unkind_

_Have no thought and have no time_

_Have no eyes, so no point of view_

_\- Flesh and Bone, Keaton Henson_

* * *

 He told Isobel about a camp follower on a military campaign. He wasn’t sure which but he remembered her, dark-haired, pale and sad-eyed. An elf. She stayed with him until the morning, likely because his Captain’s bed was warmer than where she would have slept otherwise.

They had talked a little - she had left the grinding poverty of the Halamshiral alienage in search of a better life. _Is this better?_ he had asked. _Just now, yes_ , she had replied. Her skinny arms wrapped around his neck. In the morning she shared his breakfast with the fervour of one who'd known true hunger, and likely would again.

When they next returned to camp he looked for her, but soon enough another girl warmed his bed and he didn't see her again.

“Do you think she found something better?” Isobel sat cross-legged on her bed, still dressed in her tunic and leggings. He was on the couch, nursing a goblet of wine. He looked at it now, hoping to find answers in its blood-red depths.

“It's possible,” he conceded. “More likely she ended up back in the alienage with a bastard in her belly.” Hopefully not his. “Or got caught on the wrong side of a war, or ran afoul of bandits. If she was lucky, it was more of the same. A warm bed for the night when she could get it then out in the snow with a handful of coin.” Coin that if she got to keep it that long would be spent on food, perhaps boots to stop her feet from freezing, drink to dull the senses. Bette, her name had been, or maybe Bess.

“Poor girl.” She meant it. Her eyes were sad as she crossed to him and offered her hand. Draining his drink, he took it and stood, her fingers still clasped in his. “How did it start?”

“We went to my tent.” A captain’s tent, practical but well-appointed with a small desk and chair, a bed covered in furs. The part before that didn't need mentioning, the girls huddled next to each other in the cold. His eyes raking over them, the pointed finger, the gruff _You_.

“Who undressed who?” Isobel wasn't meeting his eyes, her breath already quickening.

“Each other.” Knowing the next step, he reached up and unclasped the top of her tunic, embarrassed to see his hands shaking. But hers shook too, a little, as she went to work on his fastenings. Boots, gambeson, trousers, in a neat pile on the floor. When she was down to her underclothes he took hold of her arms, drew her in close. She'd been chilled, Bette or Bess, dressed more to catch the eye than to stay warm and shivering like a trapped bird. He found the knot of Isobel’s breastband and worked it loose.

Under the covers they went. He'd warmed the elf girl’s cold skin. Hands stroking her body, face against her breasts. He took one in his mouth now, and she moaned, soft and warm in his arms. A different body, stronger, but no less responsive. Isobel's breathing was already ragged, her hands clutching at him, holding him close against her.

“She climbed on top,” he told her, and she did, her knees on either side of his chest. The first and last time he'd seen her naked she was shy, hands moving to cover herself until he took them and kissed away her fears. Now she was proud and still, awaiting the next move.

Her warrior’s body was taut and sleek. The only softness was in the round swell of her breasts, and when he slid his hands up her stomach to hold them she arched into his touch.

He guided himself to her entrance and she sank down onto him, and he couldn't contain a sigh at the feeling of being wrapped in her warmth, tight around him. She rocked her hips against him and the sigh became a groan, an animal sound of need. Her movements were unsure at first but she quickly found a fluid motion, the slow roll of the  ocean lapping against the shore.

“Tell me what to do,” she whispered, and he showed her, placing one hand on his chest and the other over his where he grasped her breast, her fingers laced between his when she came with a full-throated cry, her hips jerking until he followed her.

After she lay with her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heart return to normal. Neither of them ready to sleep, but trapped until morning.

“What’s the purpose of this, exactly?”

She twisted to look at him. “Sex? That’s a strange question, from a man with your experience.”

“Is that it, then? You don’t need me for that. You could move on, you could have more than this.”

“What, love?” Her head rested back on his chest. “I tried it once. It didn’t take.”

Cautiously he stroked her shoulder, and she didn’t object. “I don’t like what I’ve turned you into.”

A soft huff of laughter. “What’s that, then? Shameless? Wanton?”

 _Bitter_ was too harsh a word. “Cynical.”

“Cynical.” She considered a moment. “I like it.”

“Well I don’t.”

“It’s too late for that.” Her fingers brushed through the hair on his broad chest.

 _You made your bed,_ she’d told him, and now they both lay in it.

“How old are you, my lady?” Somehow it had never occurred to him to ask. At first enough to know _too young for you,_ and later it mattered less.

“Twenty-four.”

“And still…?”

She laughed. “Well, not lately! But yes.”

“How?”

There was a pause before she answered. “It's hard enough to marry off the youngest child without throwing in...added complications. I was already an oddity, a tomboy. Add used goods to the list and I'd never make a decent match.”

He ignored _used goods,_ running his fingers over her hair, a complicated mass of braids and loops his eye had trouble following. “I'd hardly call you a tomboy, my lady.”

“Oh, I can dance the dances and embroider prettily enough, but for a noble daughter of Ostwick believe me, I was a tomboy. People chided my parents for letting me run wild, all while their daughters did just that. Me, every man around me was in the employ of my father, a friend of my brothers, or my actual brother. Did I tell you how many older brothers I have? _So_ many. All guarding me like a prize bitch.”

A shame they hadn't guarded her from him. “That bad?”

“Not really,” she conceded. “As long as I was allowed a sword in my hand, I wasn’t rebellious. I didn’t give them much cause for concern. I think most of the men saw me as one of the boys.”

His fingers traced her spine, the soft curve of her back. “I doubt that very much.”

“If they didn’t, they hid it very well.” She rested her chin on his chest. “At least my parents respected me enough not to push me into marriage. They dangled me in front of plenty of suitors, but every one of them was certain I’d want to put down my sword and act like a proper lady. Would you believe my lady wife used to ride into battle with her brothers? She once slew an entire bandit troupe, and now look at her, tamed into a corset. What a charming story it would make.”

Probably not the moment to remark on how well she’d look in a corset. “And then the Conclave.”

“And then the Conclave.” He heard the smile in her voice. “They were probably hoping I’d meet some like-minded, well-connected man. They were half right, anyway.”

They fell silent for a while.

“I thought about giving you to the Wardens.” She looked up, face unreadable in the dark.

“Why didn't you?” There could have been worse fates. This, for example, but right now with her head resting on his chest, his arm around her shoulders, it didn't seem so bad.

“I wasn't sure it works like that. Can you just...gift someone to the Wardens? I thought if they wanted to conscript you, they had the chance.”

“And they didn't.” The thought had occurred to him. He doubted many in the order would welcome him.

“No, they didn't. Just as well. I'm not done with you, yet.”

“What do the Wardens think of your little charade, then?”

She shrugged. “We don't answer to the Wardens. And they're not in a strong bargaining position right now.”

He found his hand was stroking her back, brushing the loose wisps of hair at the back of her neck. Her skin was so soft. Another movement, this time definitely on purpose.

“Don’t they deserve more respect than that?”

“Respect? Do you remember the demon army? I do.” Her hand snaked down his chest. “This camp follower of yours...was it just the once?”

His voice came out hoarse. “No. More than once.”

“Enough talking, then.” Her legs around him, his mouth at her breast.

He couldn't rightly remember what they'd been talking about anyway.

 

There was a moment, in the morning, when he watched her sleeping and could imagine everything was normal between them. He was close enough to see the faint dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose and the tiny flicker of her eyelashes. So close he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

Then she stretched, sleepily, and opened her eyes. Stormheart, with tiny flecks of serpentstone. He saw the contented happiness dawn on her face when she saw him there, and the next second saw it die away. Her expression became closed, guarded.

“Look at me, waking up with a man next to me.” Her eyes flicked over him, and he felt a hundred years old. “There's a first time for everything.” A tug on the blankets and she turned her back, curled under the bedclothes. “You can go.”

He dressed, paused before leaving. “This demeans us both, my lady.”

Isobel turned and sat up on her elbows, the blanket falling around her waist. “You think you can be demeaned, Thom?” A dangerous glitter in her eyes.

“Perhaps not. But you don’t need to be cruel.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

His temper flared. “You’re a bloody fool, to jeopardise the Inquisition’s reputation for the sake of your vengeance.”

“A fool, am I?” A slow smile, a tilt of her head. “You are who you choose to follow, someone once told me.”

“I didn’t choose this.” He looked away, his face burning.

“Wrong again.” She covered a delicate yawn with her hand. “Leave me now, I’m tired.”

He closed the door with too much force on the way out. A pair of bloody fools, both of them. Perhaps they deserved each other.


	5. Oh, Grey Warden

_I am more than this frame_

_I feel hurt, and I feel shame_

_Just wish you would feel the same_

_\- Flesh and Bone, Keaton Henson_

* * *

 

A satisfying crack, as the wood split. He threw it aside, placed a new log on the block.

 _You’re oddly charming, for a man I found wandering in the forest._ He’d dared to hope.

 _More odd than charming, but I’ll take a compliment from a lady._ Snow was her element. In Haven she had shone like an ember, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. _They’re hard to come by these days._

He swung the axe.

 _Compliments, or ladies?_ A hint of mischief in her smile.

Was this flirting? He was out of practice. _Both._ She had laughed. It had felt dangerous, a bit wicked. How innocent it seemed now.

He worked until sweat dripped from his beard, ran down his back. Alone above the stables he scrubbed his skin with soap and icy water, but he still felt unclean.

 

“Inquisitor?”

They were all watching her, she realised. She’d been staring at the map unseeing, his scornful words twisting her gut. This battle would bring all the Inquisition’s might down on the Red Templars, a final route of Corypheus’s forces if all went to plan. Her loss of concentration now could cost lives in the Arbor Wilds.

“I’m sorry, please continue.”

“Perhaps we could take a break.” Cullen and Josephine seemed concerned. Leliana’s face was harder to read, but she nodded.

They filed from the war room, Isobel and Josephine last. “You look tired, Inquisitor.”

“I am.” She slapped her cheeks lightly to wake herself up.

“It has been a trying time.” Josephine lingered. “Is all well, between you and…”

“Blackwall.” She wondered if her smile looked as unnatural as it felt. “As well as can be expected.” _We hate each other, and I torment him, and we fuck. Sometimes I want to cry out his name, but I don’t know who he is. I hardly know who I am, any more._

There was nobody she could confide in about this. The sympathy would leave Josie’s eyes if she knew the truth. “If you ever want to talk…”

She smiled. “Thank you. But I wouldn’t know where to start.” That much was true.

 

Their first kiss had been here. The moonlight spilling bright through the stained glass windows, her soft lips yielding to him. _I’m not letting you go,_ she had said.

He had come here tonight from the tavern. The bard there had a new song.

_Oh, Grey Warden,_

_What have you done?_

The Herald’s rest had been nearly empty when he arrived, but he’d taken his pint to the darkest corner he could find and kept his head down. Sera was upstairs, she at least might have welcomed his company, but he wouldn’t have been much company. Besides, he deserved to drink alone.

_The oath you have taken_

_Is all but broken._

A group of soldiers had come in, seen him and given his table a wide berth. It could have been his identity that put them off, or it could have been the dark look on his face.

_Ally or foe?_

_The Maker only knows._

Ale was not strong enough. He had ordered whisky.

_Can you be forgiven,_

_When the cold grave has come?_

Did the bloody woman know he was here? She must.

_All is undone_

_Ash in the sun,_

_Cast into darkness_

_The light we had won._

At sundown he had made his unsteady way to the Inquisitor’s quarters, and when he saw her all he could think of was a low night, days after his involvement in the attack on Callier had come to light. He’d fled to the coast to outrun the news, thinking to take a boat out of Orlais. Instead he’d wound up blind drunk, taking a redheaded dockside whore against a stack of crates.

And that was how he came to be here, breeches unlaced, with Lady Trevelyan bent forwards over the railing at the top of the stairs. Her skirts up around her waist and his fist tangled in her hair, her cries anything but ladylike. He drove into her hard and fast, a hand reaching into her bodice to paw at her breasts, until she fairly _screamed_ and he jerked against her, pulling her head back and spilling inside her. "Fucking whore," he muttered.

_Oh, Grey Warden,_

_What have you done?_

He released her and she leaned on the railing, breath heaving. He clumsily laced his breeches.

 _We’ll regret this, my lady._ She couldn’t say he hadn’t warned her.

 

She had asked for this, and Maker help her, she’d do it again. This was not how a lady behaved. But when he was gone, her pulse still raced. She wet a cloth and wiped down her thighs. She wasn’t sure how she could look up at those windows every day and not feel the cold stone pressing against her, his fingers pulling at her scalp, his body pounding into hers. If she touched her breasts she could still feel his hands on her, rough and demanding.

She should release him. She should, but she couldn’t.

 

He woke on his bed of straw, his mouth dry and foul. Then remembered last night. His rough treatment of her, his words in her ear. Worst of all, the memory stirred more in him than shame. The way she clenched around him when he came, the scream he tore from her throat. He had worshipped her, once.

_You know, I see my fair share of ruins and death, too. Maybe that means we’re perfect for each other._

Everything the two of them touched, ruins and death. The hangman’s noose would have been kinder. And still he ached for her.

 

He was late. Would he really make her send for him? Would she do it? She must, she had told him she would. Empty threats bred disrespect. Her clothes were damp from the practice yard, and eventually she stripped down to her smallclothes and stood before the basin, soaping away the day’s sweat. Finally she heard his heavy tread on the stairs.

Maker, but he looked miserable. “What's wrong?” she asked, reaching for a towel to dry herself.

He avoided her eyes. “I'm sorry, my lady. My behaviour last night was…”

“What I ordered of you.” She turned to face him. His shoulders were hunched and his eyes fixed on his boots. “Am I so repulsive, the idea of touching me brings you such shame? Look at me.”

His eyes were heavy with remorse. “What I did...what I called you…”

“Whore? That's how I told you to think of me.” She crossed to him, wrapped her arms around his neck. “Now. Are we done with this silly regret?”

He was frozen for a moment before his arms encircled her, his face buried in her neck. “I'm sorry.”

What could she do? She found his mouth, kissed him gently. His hands ran up her bare back.

“Well, now I suppose you'll have to tell me about one who let you kiss her.”

“I can't.”

“Tell me.”

He closed his eyes, thinking. “Marta. She worked in a brothel in Val Royeaux.”

“You knew her name?”

“I went to her more than once. The men started calling her the captain's girl.”

The captain's girl. His mouth on her neck, and she struggled to collect her thoughts.

 

He recalled a warm night in Val Royeaux, a carnival in the streets. Music and the chatter of a hundred voices drifting in through the open window.

He sat and pulled her into his lap, kissed her neck as she unlaced his tunic and ran her hands down his chest.

“She had the most amazing ti- breasts. A lot like yours.”

She laughed and sat back, allowing him a better view. “What was amazing about them?”

“They were…” he cupped one, “just the right size to hold in your hand. With just a little dusting of freckles.” He traced them with his finger. “And little pink nipples, right…” he circled one and watched it stiffen to a hard peak. Her eyes closed.

“They don't sound that special.”

“I'm not very good at description. They were...perfect.” He lowered his face to her breast and she sighed in contentment as he took the pink tip in his mouth and sucked gently. His hand moved to her other breast, rolling the nipple between his thumb and finger until she gasped, her fingers threading in his hair.

His fingertips slipped inside the hem of her smallclothes and rested there, and she rose her hips to meet him, warm and wet like a kiss.

Marta had hair the colour of straw, blue eyes. Not the prettiest girl in the place or the most talented - there was a dark-skinned Rivaini who could bend her legs behind her head, and a girl from Montsimmard who could do the most sinful things with her mouth. But the way those tits rested perfectly in his hands, and her sighs when he filled her...she'd be older, now. He wondered what became of her, the captain's girl.

And the kisses...Isobel was working on the laces of his breeches now and he captured her mouth with his. He'd missed this, the soft sweetness of her mouth, her full lips parting under his, the slide of her tongue against his teeth. His free hand moved in her hair, removing pins and loosening braids until it fell in a fire-kissed cascade down her back, and his fingers moved inside her, making her moan against his mouth. She freed him from his breeches and wrapped her hand around his length, and it was his turn to moan.

“Stand up.” He pulled at the ribbon holding her smallclothes up and slipped the soft fabric down her legs. The hair that curled between her thighs was darker, still coppery. She climbed onto his lap and took him inside her, and it felt like coming home.

_I could never regret this life. Not with you in it._


	6. Mockingbird, Mockingbird

_ And I am more than these bones _

_ I feel love, feel alone _

_ Just wish you would come home _

_ \- Flesh and Bone, Keaton Henson _

* * *

 

There was a time he'd never have thought of doing this. Imagined, yes. Considered, no. She was a lady, to be courted, kissed, made love to. Not to have his mouth buried between her legs.

It was a small falsehood - the last woman he'd done this to was not a doxy but a sellsword, a hard-faced battle-scarred woman with whom he'd shared a bottle and then a tent. She'd been unabashed in pursuit of her own pleasure, a hand fisted in his hair driving him hard against her to a silent, shuddering climax.

There was no such rush tonight, and he took his time with Isobel. Coaxing her with feather-light flicks, darting against her until her breath came in short, staccato gasps. Then easing her back from the edge with slow, soothing sweeps of his tongue, feeling her shiver beneath his touch. He didn't stop until his jaw began to cramp and then he teased her into a frenzy, finally closing his lips over the centre of her desire and sucking until she came undone around him, gasping for air.

He smiled, pleased with his handiwork. “Satisfied, my lady?”

She struggled up onto her elbows, hair a mess, her cheeks flushed pink. “You paid someone to let you do that?” she said, skeptical.

“Aye.” Why not? One more lie on the pile.

Her head fell back, her magnificent breasts rising and falling with each slow breath. He kissed her hip; there were no rules about that.

“But...what do you get out of it?”

He chuckled. “More than you'd think.” Parted lips, eyes wide with wonder. “That sweet fucking look on your face, for one.” He raised himself up and climbed over her, a dragon stalking its prey. “And this.” He eased into her yielding body and it took him no time at all to succumb to that warm embrace, chasing her over the edge with a cry, a warm spill. She arched under him, the firelight dancing golden on her skin.

“Maker's fucking breath, but you're beautiful.” Suddenly shy, her hands flew to cover herself only to find themselves trapped in his. “Beautiful.” He kissed the dip between her breasts, rested his face there. If he stayed here, right here, they could pretend a little longer.

 

_You're unlike any woman I've ever met._

He'd told her that, early on, and she'd smiled, thinking of the long years he'd spent as a solitary Warden. How many women did he meet, out there in the wilds?

It turned out he'd known a lot of women. Women of different shapes, height, colouring, age. Different circumstances, different positions. It brought colour to her cheeks at inopportune times, thinking of the things they did in the dark of her quarters.

He'd grown used to the telling after a while. He no longer seemed ashamed of the things he made her do, the things she made him do to her. It wasn't healthy, wasn't right, but she didn't know how to stop it even if she could.

_You have the world at your feet, myself included._

 

The man was a soldier, heavyset and grizzled. Orlesian by his accent, and red-eyed with drink. “Thom Rainier.”

“Let me pass.”

“I heard a rumour in the capital.” The man swayed slightly on his feet, still blocking Thom’s entrance into the stables. “Had to come see for myself. And what a joke! Everybody here knows. Knows you for who you are.” His slurred voice was thick with contempt. “I knew some of your soldiers. And Callier’s. Good men and women, dead because of you.”

The spectacle was drawing attention now, people pausing in their conversation to stare. His fists balled at his sides.

“And here you are, taking the name of another good man. Hiding away up here, with the Inquisitor sucking your cock.”

“I'm warning you, let me pass.” The truth of the man's words didn't stop the rage from building in his blood.

The drunk staggered closer. “You should be swinging at the end of a rope. If it wasn't for that Marcher whore - “

He hit the ground hard, Thom’s knuckles bruising with the impact. The outcry brought Cullen down from his tower, as the man’s fellows dragged him away to see the healer.

“What did he say?” The commander’s jaw was clenched in anger.

Thom shrugged. “The truth.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. “I don't need to tell you the damage you've already done to the Inquisition’s reputation. I would appreciate it if you would refrain from brawling in the courtyard like a common soldier.”

“Noted.”

The other man relented. “I'm not without sympathy. I know this situation is not of your choosing. We just have to make the best of it, until all this is done.” He clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Carry on then. Blackwall.”

 

It was past sundown, and he couldn't seem to move from the edge of his bed. _Good men and women, dead because of you._ Lives destroyed. Some would have been spared if he'd come forward sooner. Even more if he hadn't taken the fucking job in the first place. He deserved to swing, for all of it.

_Mockingbird, mockingbird, quiet and still,_

_What do you see from the top of that hill?_

Tiny broken things in the mud.

It wasn't a messenger or a soldier that finally climbed the stairs. “I heard there was some excitement today.” Isobel leaned on the wall, green eyes glittering in the dim light.

“I'd rather not talk about it.”

“Fair enough. But I believe we had an appointment.”

He raised his eyes to her, pleading. “When does it end, my lady? All of this? Why not just hang me and be done with it?”

“I'm not going to hang you.”

“I wish you would. It's no more than I deserve.” He buried his face in his hands.

“We still need you.” Her soft footsteps approached. “I still need you.”

“What use am I to you?” Through clenched teeth. “I'm not even a Warden.”

“No, you're not. But you are very good with a sword.”

He opened his eyes. She was crouched before him, the trace of a smile on her lips, close enough to kiss. “I'm not in the mood for jokes just now.”

“Fine.” She took his hand and threaded her fingers through his. “What are you in the mood for?”

 _A hanging._ Instead he said, “Let me tell you about a girl.”

“I'm listening.”

“She had red hair. Green eyes. She trusted me.”

The smile died on her lips. “Thom, don't.”

He gripped her hand in his. “I told her I didn't deserve her. But I was too weak to stay away.” He looked away from the pain in her eyes. “She said _You don’t know tomorrow any better than I do._ But I knew what was coming. I took what I wanted from her and then I left like a thief in the night. Like a coward.”

As if his touch burned her she pulled back and stood, her shaking fingers hovering near her lips. “Don't.”

Then she fled and he heard her descend the stairs, falter. His fingers felt cold where she'd snatched her hand away.

After a while he got up and followed her. She was hunched on the stairs, arms wrapped around her middle as her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs. He pulled her head to his shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“It wasn't supposed to be like this.” She dashed tears away with the back of her wrist. “I don't know how to make it right.”

His arms encircled her, curled warm and soft against his chest. “I know, Bel.”

Her mumbled words were buried in his coat.

“What was that?”

Her tear stained face emerged. “I said you're free.”

He went perfectly still, his pulse racing. He searched her face for mockery. “Just like that?”

“You can still serve the Inquisition. As Thom Rainier. And this...between us. I'm freeing you.”

Relief flooded him and his arms tightened around her. “Thank you, my lady.”

Isobel rubbed her eyes and stood, shakily, before touching his face gently in a gesture of farewell.

“Goodnight, then. Thom Rainier.”


	7. The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff for the last chapter

_My body's weak, feel my lungs giving up on me_

_I'm worried it might just be so_ _mething my soul needs_

_Something my soul needs_

_i_ _s you lying next to me_

_\- Flesh and Bone, Keaton Henson_

* * *

 

“Did you hear? The inquisitor’s back.”

It had been eerily quiet in Skyhold since the bulk of their forces departed for the Arbor Wilds. Thom had remained to train their rawest recruits while Cullen joined the battle. It chafed a little to be left behind, but there’d be plenty more chances to fight at her side when she returned. And if she didn’t return...well, best not to think of it.

“She ain't back.” A scout looked up from his pint. “Ravens just come from the Wilds yesterday. She's leagues away yet.”

The serving girl was adamant. “I'm telling you she's back. Came through a mirror, she did.”

“She is back, I seen her.” A runner from the kitchens chimed in. “But she never come through a mirror.”

“How'd she get here, then?”

“Don't know. But not through a mirror, that's daft.”

“You're bloody daft. It were a mirror, that's what I heard. We've seen stranger.”

“Stranger’n people walking through bleeding mirrors? No I ain't.”

“She's the Herald of Andraste, she is. If she wants to walk through mirrors it’s her own business.”

“When did this happen?” They hadn’t noticed him in the corner, now fell over themselves to impart the news.

“Quarter of’n hour ago, Ser. They sent to the kitchens first.”

“Twere at least half’n hour. I seen Sera in the hall.”

“That’s Lady Sera, to the likes of you.”

“Call her that to her face and she’ll knock your bloody head off your shoulders.”

“But she’s unhurt? The Inquisitor?”

“Think so, Ser. You should see for yourself.”

He was already gone.

 

His rush up the stairs set him on a collision course with Sera.

“Whoah! Keep your knickers on, beardy. Her ladypants is just fine.”

“What happened?”

“Ugh.” She scrunched her face up in disgust. “Don’t want to talk about it. The most elfy bollocks anywhere, ever. And _jumping_ through _mirrors_. Ergggh.” A grin broke over her face. “But we won! At least, we stopped Coryphytits from getting...whatever it was he wanted to get. And kicked his army right in the balls.” She punched him on the arm. “Now I’m off to join her inquisitorialness in the bathhouse. Stew on that.” A cackle as she ran down the stairs.

And now he was. Thank you very much, Sera. Well he could hardly seek her out there.

“Captain Rainier, Ser.” A messenger arrived, breathless.

“Just Rainier will do. I’m not a Captain any more.”

“Very well, Ser. I’ve been sent to tell you the Inquisitor has returned.”

Thom huffed with amusement. “Yes, thank you. I’ve been made aware of that.”

“I’m sorry, Ser. I couldn’t find you.”

“If you’re stuck in the future, lad, the tavern is usually a fair bet.”

“Yes, Captain. Ser.”

“Wait…” The messenger had been poised to run off, now halted. “Does the Inquisitor have duties for the rest of the day? Debriefing, that sort of thing.”

“Don’t think so, Ser. The commander and everyone’s still in the Wilds. We’ve sent ravens to let them know she’s here.”

“Very good.” He dismissed the lad, the tentative beginnings of an idea forming in his mind.

 

Clean hair, clean clothes, clean skin. And blessed respite from the relentless, sticky heat of the Arbor Wilds. She ascended the stairs to her quarters, damp and flushed from the bath. And froze to see a familiar outline  in the doorway leading to the balcony.

“Thom.”

He leaned against the door frame, his face in shadow. “My lady. Isobel.”

The sound of her name send a flood of warmth through her. She ran fingers through her wet hair, suddenly self-conscious. “You've heard, then?”

“I think the world's heard, by now. Except possibly the spymaster. There's a first time for everything.” He moved from the shadows and she saw his slow smile, the burden clutched in his hand.

“Flowers, Thom?” He glanced down, embarrassed, at the motley assortment of blooms.

“Just from the garden. I didn't have much time.” She took them from his outstretched fist, the stalks warm and crushed.

“They're lovely. Thank you.”

“My lady.” He cleared his throat. “I…”

His discomfort was clear. She hoped a smile might reassure him but he glanced away, rubbing shaking hands on his gambeson. When he looked back at her his face was set in resolve.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

Oh Maker, what now? She didn’t have the energy for more revelations, not now, not ever. He saw her dismay and a faint smile played about his lips.

“I’m not Warden Blackwall.”

She made a sound of exasperation.

“My real name is Thom Rainier.”

“I know all this,” she cried. “What are - “

“Hush.” He placed a battle-roughened finger on her lips. “Isobel. I know it’s late for this. Too late. But I need to make it right.” He took her hands in his, and his voice shook. “I was on the run from the Orlesian crown. For murder, and treason. I was guilty of both, and more.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Thom.”

“Warden Blackwall died saving me from a darkspawn attack, and I took his name. I lied to the Inquisition. To you.” His thumb wiped a tear from her face, and he left his hand cupping her cheek. “That’s the truth I should have told you before the first time. And I will never leave you again. Not unless you want me to.”

“I don’t.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t want you to.”

He kissed her then with infinite tenderness, kissed her mouth, her jaw, the tears from her face. Her neck, and she pressed against him, wrapped her arms around his neck tight enough to lift her onto her toes.

Their fingers trembled as they undressed and he ran his rough hands lightly over her bared skin, bent to kiss her breasts.

She led him to the bed. “This is the first time,” she murmured, and he nodded. He lay her down and stroked her body, his gentle touches awaking a fire in her veins, and when he raised his eyes to hers in an unspoken question she whispered “Yes.”

He sank into her slowly, with care, both of them breathing disjointedly, paused when he rested fully inside her. She moaned and pushed up against him, begging him to move, and he did, slow and tentative, then sure, peppering her bare skin with kisses and whispering love against her neck. Her strong legs wrapped around him to draw him in deeper, to be one with him.

Time flowed, lost in the soft press of their bodies and their breathless sighs.

“Forgive me, Bel,” he murmured.

“I do. I do.” She kissed him desperately. “Forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, my lady. My love.” And her head fell back on the pillows, breath leaving her body in a single shaking gasp, “Thom”. He rested inside her, spent and sated, her damp head nestled against his shoulder. Her arms around his neck tightened.

“Don’t go.”

“Never again.” He kissed her neck, and she sighed. “Never. I promise.”

She laughed softly. “Are we friends now, then?”

His hands ran down the curve of her back. “More than that, I hope.”

“Friends, and more. Thom.”

“Sounds perfect to me.”

 

Thom Rainier watched his lady depart across the courtyard, the feel of her still on his lips. He raised his face to the sunshine and saw a pair of yellow-clad legs swinging from the stable roof.

“Done with all the brooding then?”

“No more brooding, I promise.”

Sera looked after Isobel, appreciating her swaying hips. “Proper lady, that one.”

Thom chuckled. “You’d be surprised.”

“Oi! You have to tell me now. Can’t go dropping that and leaving it dangling.”

He crossed his arms. “I certainly will not.”

“You good, though? You and her ladybits?” She grinned impishly, and he smiled in return.

“Oh yes. We’re good.” Face raised to the light of the sun, letting its warmth wash over him. He still carried guilt, but to walk in the light again, with her by his side..."We're very good."


End file.
